


five feet apart

by thesmallestacorn



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Watching Porn Together, chicago era, flophouse era, jerking off, jk they’re pretty fuckin gay they just can’t admit it, kinkmeme fill, two bros chillin in a hot tub five feet apart cause they’re not gay, watching the red sox together because they’re a couple of Boston bozos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 10:29:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14494977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesmallestacorn/pseuds/thesmallestacorn
Summary: two bros, jerking off on a flophouse couch, five feet apart cause they’re not gay





	five feet apart

**Author's Note:**

> title, of course, from the most iconic (and most vietreau) vine of all time  
> required viewing before you read this
> 
> thank you heather for betaing ! 
> 
> fill from the kinkmeme: “Campaign or D.C. era, just a couple of straight bros sitting on the couch side by side, hands brushing.” Thanks to whoever prompted this!

Jon decides to call it a night early, because this new bar Cody told them about blows. Shomik already left with his arm around that loud brunette girl who was in the corner booth, no one else wanted to come out with them, and it’s been an exhausting few days on the campaign trail. They’re gearing up for a debate, and he and Tommy have been workshopping the opening statement language for the better part of the last two weeks, changing a couple words at a time, arguing over whether to talk about Iraq before or after the economy. It’s the worst. Even though he really could use a good lay, he’s just too tired to flirt. And he probably looks like shit, considering he’s slept seven hours over the last three days. Whatever. He’ll probably just sneak by Tommy, who’s probably asleep on the couch, and jerk off in his room before he goes to bed. 

He steps outside, pulling his coat up to hide his neck from the icy wind. Chicago winters are harsher than Boston winters. The snow always seems to be on the offensive, rather than just letting people get used to it, and the wind bites harder. The cold sobers him up immediately, so the only reminder of the two beers he had is the small brown stain on the cuff of his shirt where he had spilled a few drops. He wants to get a slice of pizza, but the place on the corner is closed for the night, so he opts to rush back to the house, where there’s probably leftover pizza somewhere deep in the fridge. Cody had mentioned something about that before he left for the weekend. 

He unlocks the door quietly, numb fingers fumbling the keys, and steps inside. The TV is still on, but his eyes are too blurry from the cold to see right away what it is. He hears it, though.

A female voice, desperate, “fuck me, fuck me, please,” then a loud groan. Shit, Tommy’s watching porn. He’s in a sweatshirt and sweatpants, one big hand on his thigh, and the other, well, it’s hard to see in the dark with only the light from the tv, but it looks like he’s pulling out his--shit. He debates his options, head swirling. Tommy doesn’t appear to have noticed him. He could try to go back out the door and wait it out. He could stay where he is and hope Tommy doesn’t see him. He could walk past quickly, pretend he doesn’t notice or doesn’t care what Tommy’s doing, and go to his room. Or, or…

Tommy makes a low noise and Jon closes his eyes, tipping his head back. Fuck, this is hot. It shouldn’t be, and he really shouldn’t be doing this. Watching your best friend jerk off without him knowing is such a fucking violation. And yet… the porn is pretty good. The woman from before has brought a friend, and they’re taking turns sucking the guy’s dick. Jon tries to focus on that, and not the sound of Tommy’s hand on his dick, the way his breath is quickening, how big--god, how  _ big _ his dick is. Shit. He’s such a fucking creep. He reaches down to adjust himself, move his own rapidly hardening dick into a more comfortable position. His elbow bumps against the frying pan on the counter and Tommy looks up at the noise.  _ Shit. _

“Oh, shit, dude, I didn’t see you there. Sorry, I was, uh…”

“Sorry, no worries. Carry on, I’ll just, uh, I’ll--”

“Yeah” Tommy interrupts hastily. 

“That’s some hot shit though. Is this pay per view?”  _ Oh my God, what the fuck is he doing? _ The words are coming out of his mouth before he even realizes what he’s saying. 

“Yeah, it is. Uh, hot, I mean. And pay per view too. Yeah.” Tommy stumbles.

Jon isn’t sure what to do. His feet are frozen to the ground. He knows he should end the conversation and go to his room, jerk off, let Tommy do his thing, and never speak of this again. But something is pulling him towards the couch. 

Jon starts mumbling, “Uh, I’m gonna, uh--” at the same time Tommy looks at the wall over Jon’s shoulder and mutters in a low voice, “You can stay and watch if you like.”

“Sorry, uh, go ahead” Tommy stammers.

“No, uh, I--I guess, um, yeah, sure. I was, uh, you know, gonna watch something like that anyway, so, I, um, I guess, um, might as well?” The words tumble out of his mouth. So much for ‘speechwriter of a generation.’

He doesn’t know what’s happening, but his feet are moving him to the couch, on the opposite end from Tommy, and Tommy’s unpausing the TV and putting his hand back in his pants with a low groan that might be the most erotic thing Jon’s heard all evening, including the moans of the girl on the TV as the other girl goes down on her. He tries not to look at Tommy, because it still feels like a violation, even though Tommy told him he could stay. If he looks at Tommy, that’s admitting to himself that he thinks of Tommy  _ that way _ , that’s he’s just as turned on by the real life porn in front of him as he is by the porn on the screen, that he wants to--no, he can’t. He licks his hand and unbuttons his pants, exhaling sharply as his hand closes around his dick. 

He does it like he usually does, thumbing at the head first, then starting to stroke the rest of it slowly, then faster. He’s developed a routine over the years, knows exactly how he likes it, what feels the best. A few years ago he figured out that it felt good to rub one finger on the skin by his ass, so now he’s added that, alternating between his balls and that spot. Sometimes, when he’s got time, he’ll get a finger wet and stick it in himself, curling up until he finds the right angle. He wonders how Tommy does it, but he’s not gonna look over, as much as he’s tempted to. Instead, he imagines it, mind wandering away from the girls on screen. From the sounds of it, Tommy goes slower than he does, steady, calm, but practical, like everything else Tommy does. He pictures Tommy’s hand on his dick, so big, probably nice and wet by now, sticking up out of his sweats. God, what a thought. 

His pants are too constricting, and he can’t get a good angle like this, so he takes the leap and pulls himself out of his boxers, cool air hitting him. He’s pretty sure he can feel Tommy’s eyes on him, looking at his dick, but when he looks over, Tommy’s focused on the TV again. Jon wonders if Tommy is thinking the same things he is. Is Tommy as turned on by him as he is by Tommy? No, probably not, Tommy’s--well, Jon’s never asked, but he’s pretty sure Tommy’s straight. Then again, Tommy probably thinks Jon’s straight. Which he is. Usually. Kind of. If Tommy knew what Jon thought about him, if he knew that Tommy often entered Jon’s fantasies when he jerked off, then he wouldn’t have let him stay. This is just a bro, helping out a bro. Nothing more to it. 

He’s completely lost the thread of the porn when he looks up again, so he goes back to listening to Tommy and watching him out of the corner of his eye. Tommy seems close now, he’s breathing hard, sharp exhales, bent over and pulling on his dick furiously. Fuck, it’s hot. Jon pulls hard at his own dick. God, he wants to come, wants Tommy to come, wants to hear what he sounds like, look at his face contorted with pleasure. He wants to make Tommy come, wants to hear him moan Jon’s name, wants to feel the stickiness on his fingers after Tommy collapses into his chest. He wants Tommy. 

_ Shit _ .

He tries to focus on the porn again, watch the girls suck dick with increasingly ridiculous moans, but it’s nothing, nothing,  _ nothing  _ compared to Tommy next to him. He feels the knot of pleasure in his belly, knows he’s close, but he wants to see Tommy come first. He slows down his strokes, drawing it out, watching, waiting.

Tommy comes with a low groan, head thrown back. Jon’s eyes follow the column of his throat, the way his lips part slightly, his pale eyelashes fluttering. He’s fucking beautiful, and Jon strokes himself furiously, feeling his muscles tighten and then release as he comes too, pleasure filling him, hot in his hand. 

“Shit.” Tommy says as Jon emerges from his orgasm, blinking his eyes open. Tommy’s looking at him as he wipes off his hand and clicks off the TV. Jon grabs a tissue from the side table and wipes himself off, avoiding Tommy’s gaze. He’s still not sure what to say, so he goes with “Yeah,” and puts his pants back on. 

They sit in silence for a bit longer, breathing returning to normal. 

“Do you want a beer or something?” Tommy asks. “Or--” he checks his watch “-- I think the Sox game is still on, if you wanted to watch that.”

“Yeah,” Jon says again. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

Tommy gets up to grab some beer from the fridge while Jon reaches over to flick on the TV again. The porn they were watching has ended, and the “Press Green to Purchase Another 30 Minutes” box bounces around the screen. He flips to Channel 3, where the Sox are up 3-1 in the 8th. 

Tommy comes back and plops down on the couch right next to Jon, handing him a beer. 

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

They watch in silence for a while, swearing loudly at the umpire when he calls a strike. 

“That was a fucking ball!”

“Fuck, yeah it was. Are you fucking blind!” Tommy yells, stretching his arm over the back of the couch. Jon leans back into it unconsciously. 

They finish the game (5-1 Boston, walk off home run) and their beers with it. Tommy stretches, his hand brushing Jon’s shoulder, and Jon’s stomach flips.

“Alright, I’m fucking beat.”

“Yeah, me too. I’m gonna go to bed.”

“Ok. Night, Tommy,” Jon smiles at him. 

Tommy smiles back. “Good night, Jon.” Maybe they’ll talk about this another time. 

Maybe.


End file.
